


Twenty Sherlolly Prompts: Without Words

by MizJoely



Series: Twenty Sherlolly Prompts [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Sherlolly - Freeform, Temporary Laryngitis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-16 01:58:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2251572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>thenewjefferson said: Hi, Love your stories! Seriously, they make my day. So here's what’s been in my mind. Sherlock can't talk for some reason and Molly has to figure out what he wants. No specific rating, you basically have free reign with this. Sorry, weak prompt, but this has been floating around my mind for a couple of days. Thank you so much!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty Sherlolly Prompts: Without Words

**Author's Note:**

> Medical note – the diagnosis below is based on actual medical data, but that’s about all the research I did so forgive me if anything rings false.

Sherlock not being able to talk seemed at first blush like a dream come true; no impromptu deductions, no snarky comments on her love life (or lack thereof), just blessed, golden silence whenever Sherlock was in the morgue or the path lab. Of course, once she realized he could still find ways to drive her and everyone else insane even without words, the shine faded quite a bit. And it didn’t help that he’d lost his voice right smack in the middle of the Moriarty investigation, which had hit home for Molly a bit too closely for any kind of amusement to last for long.

But while she could she teased Sherlock, and she certainly wasn’t the only one. Especially not after John Watson, through snorts of laughter, told them about the diagnosis handed down by Sherlock’s doctor: overuse of the voice box by talking too much, exacerbated by excessive smoking (Sherlock had fallen off the nicotine wagon about ten seconds after his four minute exile). The only cure was time; Sherlock was admonished to not so much as whisper for a good week, drink hot tea liberally laced with honey…and stop smoking.

Both bits of advice had been thoroughly ignored by the stubborn man, thus increasing his inability to speak by at least another week. Until he grudgingly gave in to what a scribbled note described as ‘John’s incessant nagging’ and surrendered his stash of smokes. The nicotine patches soon dotted his arms like a flock of oversized freckles.

His first contentious non-conversation/argument with Molly after the first week had passed, as a matter of fact, was over those very patches. He was using his favorite microscope, peering down at some ash that might lead him to discovering whether Moriarty was actually alive or whether they were dealing with a very clever imposter, when he rolled up his sleeves with a silent huff. The air conditioning had been rather spotty that day, and maintenance was working on it while all delicate experiments and lab samples were temporarily fridged, and he’d already discarded his suit jacket. Molly happened to walk in at that very instant; the sight of both arms virtually covered with nicotine patches had caused her to screech in wrath. “Sherlock Holmes! What the bloody HELL do you think you’re doing??”

She’d managed to actually startle him; he jumped up and stared wildly at her, then swung his head around just as wildly, as if expecting to see an assassin sneaking up on him. Then her words had finally registered; he’d scowled and made to cover his arms, but she was having none of it. She marched right up to him and yanked off three of the four patches, waving them in his face as she snapped, “Are you trying to kill yourself? Four patches??” Peering at his arms suspiciously, she added, “Unless there’s more under there?”

When she made as if to pull his sleeves up higher, he jumped back and folded his arms behind his back, shaking his head vigorously. When he opened his mouth as if to protest, however, she slapped her hand over his mouth. “No you don’t, not unless you want to spend yet another week with no voice!”

He nodded acquiescence and she pulled her hand away, although his gaze remained sullen. Then, with elaborately exaggerated motions, he tugged his sleeves up higher to demonstrate that no, he hadn’t slapped any more patches on. His face was very expressive, and Molly had no problem reading his meaning as he yanked the sleeves back down. “I don’t care how high your tolerance is, Sherlock Holmes, you won’t be overdosing on my watch.”

He’d thrown his hands up in the air and raised his eyes toward the ceiling, scowl firmly in place, as if asking a higher deity why he was forced to put up with such nonsense. Molly had ignored him, gone about her business, and he’d sullenly returned to his seat at the microscope. But she felt his gaze on her every now and then, and did her best to ignore it. Honestly, the man was like a child sometimes, utterly heedless of the possible consequences of his actions – or pretending there wouldn’t be any.

Before she left, she spoke to him again, making sure to hold his gaze as she said, “Look, Sherlock, I know this is frustrating, not being able to talk. And I know the real reason you’re so frustrated is because of the whole Moriarty thing, but so help me God, if I catch you overusing the nicotine patches again, I swear I will tie you up and lock you in your room! And since you’ve got me staying in John’s old bedroom – and since I also know you have a stash of purloined handcuffs littering the place – don’t think I won’t!”

She’d turned on her heel and left him, not noting the thoughtful look that had come over his face at her words – as if he’d suddenly seen her in an entirely different light…and liked what he saw.

Their next non-vocal (on his part) and extremely vocal (on her part) ‘discussion’ was witnessed by Phil Anderson, Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan (who thoroughly enjoyed Sherlock’s inability to speak, especially at crime scenes, although she did keep all the sarcastic notes he gave her when they disagreed, posting them on her personal blog where the two of them spent furious hours snarking back and forth at one another and neither would admit to immensely enjoying), and John and Mary Watson. And baby Isabelle, of course, but the six-week-old managed somehow to sleep through it until the end, so she hardly counted.

It was two days after his and Molly’s first dust-up; Sherlock had been meticulous about following her instructions, even going so far as to appear before her every day before she left for work (under escort by some of Mycroft’s men, of course). Shirtless, and presenting his arms to her for inspection. Even though she rather sardonically noted that his doing so didn’t stop him from slapping on a whole pile as soon as she was gone, she was willing to concede that he appeared to be taking better care of himself in spite of being essentially 24/7 on a case.

The shirtless part was unnecessary, but Molly certainly wasn’t going to say so, since she very much appreciated the view. Yes, she’d firmly shut away her romantic hopes regarding the infuriating man, but she was realistic enough to know that shutting them away wasn’t the same as no longer having them. And if Sherlock caught her gaze lingering a bit on his very fit, hairless chest before moving to his forearms, at least he couldn’t say anything out loud about it. Surprisingly enough, he didn’t even smirk at her when their eyes did meet, and Molly took it as a sign that he wanted her to know that yes, he was behaving, and that he took her threats – facetious though they had been – seriously.

So the second argument came as something of an unpleasant surprise; he’d gathered up his anti-Moriarty team in the secondary, and much smaller, path lab to give a bit of a slide show on the progress – or lack thereof – they’d made so far. When Molly arrived, it was entirely by accident; she’d come by because the main lab was inexplicably out of glass microscope slides.

The reason for her anger wasn’t that she’d been excluded; Sherlock had taken to regularly attempting to keep her out of the loop; before he’d lost his voice he’d tried arguing that she was too visible a target. Since Moriarty or the person claiming to be him had blown up her flat, she couldn’t really argue with that reasoning, but refused to let him wrap her up in a bubble (after all, had been her rebuttal, it had happened not only when she was away but when she’d taken Toby to the vet and none of her neighbors were home, either, so no one had actually been injured). Hell, she knew if he had his way she’d be hidden away in some government safe house until it was all over. She appreciated his concern, she really did, but enough was enough. “Sherlock!” she called as she allowed the door to shut behind her (wishing desperately that it could be allowed to slam rather than just sort of whooshing shut on its pneumatics). “Sorry I’m late!” 

She smiled brightly as everyone turned to face her, then turned back, heads swiveling as if they were at a tennis match, to look at Sherlock’s reaction. They all knew her struggles to remain informed of their activities, even at times like this when clearly the meeting had been called at the last minute. She would have a few choice words for them all, since not one of them had bothered to text her.

“He’s blocked your number from our phones,” Sally interjected before Molly could say anything, a huge grin on her face as she looked back at Sherlock. Who, predictably enough, was scowling. “You might want to have a chat with him about that after he’s done with his little show and tell, yeah?”

Sherlock was clearly struggling with a desire to say something biting, and not wanting to risk his recovery yet again; in the end, he simply gave Molly one last scowl, then returned to his presentation. He continued to demonstrate his displeasure by elaborately ignoring both her and Sally as he texted responses to questions the others had.

When he’d finished and all questions had been answered (Sally had simply murmured hers to Greg, who had grinningly asked them aloud so Sherlock would have to respond), no one got up to leave, clearly wanting to see what Molly had to say to Sherlock. He, on the other hand, attempted to make his way out but was thwarted by the unmoving forms of his friends and colleagues…and by Molly, who was standing firmly in front of the door, arms crossed and brow lowered in a scowl that matched his in intensity. “Sherlock Holmes, for the last time, you cannot keep me in ignorance,” she declared, deciding that, if the others wanted to witness a scene, then witness a scene they would. “I have guards, I’m never alone even at work, I’m staying at your flat – ” A slight choking noise from Anderson told her that he’d been unaware of that little fact “ – and I’m a grown woman! Why won’t you stop trying to coddle me??”

Sherlock stalked up to her, the others finally moving aside and giving one another uneasy glances, as if sorry they’d stayed, but Molly refused to leave her post in front of the door. She jutted out her chin and glared up as Sherlock stopped directly in front of her. He raised his hands and threw them up in the air as he mouthed an exaggerated ‘boom’ at her.

“Yes, he blew up my flat, I understand, but he also tried to kidnap Isabelle and Mary, and yet here they both are!” she retorted.

“In fairness,” Mary called out, the only one whose expression remained one of cheerful interest, “he did try to have us sent to a safe house after that. But I put my foot down; I won’t be shunted aside, either, and I won’t be separated from my husband and daughter. And Sherlock knows I can damned well take care of myself, baby or no baby,” she added, raising her free hand and cocking her pointer finger and thumb in the universal symbol for a gun. Reminding them all that she was the best shot in the room, bar none. Even if Molly still had only the vaguest of theories as to how Mary had obtained that particular skill, she knew it to be true.

“Yes, I know I’m not a crack shot or a police officer or an ex-soldier,” she agreed, catching the eyes of each and every person (except the still-sleeping Isabelle, of course) in the room, ending with Sherlock; although they’d given her verbal support in her efforts to be included, she couldn’t help but notice that they didn’t go out of their way to keep her informed, either. Even when Mr. Control Freak wasn’t messing about with their mobiles. “But I’m not some helpless little damsel in distress, either. Or are you forgetting the scalpel incident?”

Sally and Lestrade sniggered, John pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully, and Sherlock’s scowl deepened as he raked agitated hands through his dark curls. That had been the second incident to cause him to try and bundle Molly off to safety; a man had somehow made it to the morgue in spite of her bodyguards and the vigilance of her colleagues, and tried to drag Molly off with him. She’d fended him off with a scalpel – the one she’d just been using on a dead body, as a matter of fact, and was rather proud of the fact that the thug – unarmed, as he apparently believed she would be an easy target – had been cowed more by the threat of being contaminated by the horrible disease Molly claimed had killed the victim on her table (who’d actually died in a car accident, poor man) than by the meager weapon itself. But when she’d rather coolly told him she was just as adept with a bone saw, and snatched up that tool and turned it on, he’d turned and fled, to be stopped by Mycroft’s men coming late to the scene.

He, as it turned out, had been paid via anonymous donor – burner phone, no names used – to make the snatch, and turned out to be a dead end. But the fact that the attempt had been made – even though Sherlock and MI5 and Lestrade all agreed it had been nothing but a feint, an attempt to test their defenses rather than an actual kidnapping – had been enough to cause Sherlock to try and send her away again.

“Instead of constantly trying to get me out of the way,” she said when Sherlock had lowered his hands to his sides – clenched into tight, knuckle-whitening fists of frustration, she noted – “Why don’t you concentrate on just stopping this maniac, whoever he is? And I think we all know it can’t possibly be Jim; he wouldn’t be this ineffectual, certainly not after nearly three months! At best he’s a clever computer hacker who knows enough to keep things interesting for himself and to keep you off looking on the wrong track!”

She gave Sherlock a defiant stare, tilting her head a bit as she saw his expression turn from frustrated to thoughtful. Then his features lit up with an unexpected grin. Molly started to relax, thinking she’d finally gotten through to him, when he did something even more unexpected.

He reached up, cradled her head in his hands, swooped his own head down to meet hers…and kissed her.

The silence was deafening; for a long moment, Molly thought she might have gone deaf. But then, she was a wee bit distracted by the feel of Sherlock’s mouth on hers, and what with kissing him back and all, it was no wonder it took her a moment to realize that everyone in the room seemed to be holding their breath. As soon as the kiss ended, with Sherlock resting his forehead on hers and his hands still cradling her face – and her hands, as she discovered, wrapped tightly in his lapels – the room erupted into a veritable storm of cheers and clapping. Then of course Isabelle woke up and expressed her extreme displeasure with the sudden noise, which Molly found very helpful in that she desperately needed to regain her equilibrium.

After all, it wasn’t every day a woman had the earth shift on its axis.

“Sherlock,” she said, after moving aside and letting the others file out (with several ‘about times’ and ‘took you long enoughs’ from everyone but fussy Isabelle and cooing mommy Mary), “what the hell was that? Please don’t tell me it was just a way to shut me up, because if it was…” She gave him a warning look and flexed her right hand meaningfully. “You’ll think those slaps I gave you when you were using again were gentle pats!”

He shook his head violently, then caught her hands in his and pressed kisses to her knuckles. When he made to kiss her lips again, of course she let him, and of course she returned it. And when it ended, she smiled softly and pressed her palm to his cheek, whispering, “Oh, Sherlock, I love you too.”

But before the next kiss she added, “And if you ever try to wrap me up in cotton-wool again, you impossible man, I promise you, you will NOT hear the end of it!”

He solemnly crossed his finger over his heart, and only then did she allow the third kiss to take place.

**Epilogue**

Less than a week later, just around the time Sherlock regained the use of his voice, the Moriarty imitator was apprehended. For services to Queen and country, Sherlock was fully pardoned for the Magnussen incident, and allowed to resume his former life with no restrictions.

Well, except for the ones Molly imposed on him of course; but he felt she was eminently reasonable in her requests that he keep the body parts and toxic experiments out of their home during her pregnancy and of course after their son was born, he continued to keep such activities limited to the lab at St. Bart’s.


End file.
